


What Did I Do Wrong?

by StarlightAndFireflies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Misunderstandings, Sherlock is a bit misguided, but he's trying to be protective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4785503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John almost dies on a case, Sherlock disappears. So John is left to figure out what he can do to get his best friend back. Meanwhile Sherlock, guilt-ridden and willingly alone, is doing everything he can to stay away... Rated thusly because I'm a bit paranoid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Doctor's Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock ain't mine, y'all.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a case nearly ends in tragedy, Sherlock reflects on the mistakes that brought him to this...

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep...

Oh, that incessant beeping, it was driving Sherlock up the wall!

He scowled at its source from his perch on the chair, wishing he could rip it out of the wall just to get some peace for a while. But even he couldn't bring himself to do that, since the beeping was resonating from John's heart monitor.

He sighed, staring at the screen, reading John's heart rate there, his fingers resting lightly on his friend's wrist as if to confirm what the machine said, as if needing to feel it for himself before he felt better about this.

John's skin was deathly pale, still looking as if he were frozen. His surgery had lasted nearly five hours, during which Sherlock had been sure he was going to go mad, not knowing if John was alive or... or not.

It was all Sherlock's fault any of this had happened, and he knew it. He had been the one to ask John to come on this case, had been the one to practically insist, just like every other time.

 

* * *

 

_"But Sherlock, I have work today," John protested, pulling on his coat to leave for the surgery._

_"No, we have a case. Would you rather wipe snotty children's noses, or catch a criminal?" Sherlock replied._

_John looked over at him, standing ready to leave in his usual coat and scarf, eyes eager and hopeful. The doctor sighed, and Sherlock knew he got him. That look always worked._

_"Fine," John exclaimed, clearly trying to hide a smile. "But when we can't pay the rent next week, it'll be your fault."_

_"We'll be fine," Sherlock said dismissively. "I can always ask Mycroft to pay it."_

_John chuckled as they headed down the stairs. "Like your pride will allow for that!"_

_Sherlock smirked to himself._

 

* * *

 

Sherlock blinked, shaking the memories to the back of his mind palace, where he shoved them in a corner and slammed the mental door. He crossed his arms and huffed. The clock on the wall told him it was nearly midnight, but he didn't feel tired in the slightest. He'd rather watch John, hoping desperately he would wake up soon. Hoping desperately he would be alright, with no long-term effects.

Sherlock dragged his fingers through his curly hair for perhaps the hundredth time that day. Taking a shaking breath, he tried fiercely to push away the rapidly resurfacing memories, but the sight of John just kept triggering them. He just wished he could look away.

 

* * *

 

_"Come on, John, we're losing him!" he called, feet flying across the ground in pursuit of their suspect, Evans._

_"Coming!" came John's faintly annoyed reply. "Just slow down a sec, would you?"_

_"No, we're losing him!" Sherlock repeated, rolling his eyes and putting on another burst of speed just to spite John._

_It had been a satisfying case so far, Sherlock mused, if lacking the grandeur of some. The fact that the primary suspect was a drug dealer had made both Lestrade and John hesitant to let Sherlock take the case, but the latter promised he was clean, for heavens sake. Not to mention his knowledge of the drug-dealing infrastructure would actually help them catch the perpetrator more quickly._

_The perpetrator in question had killed a half-dozen homeless people in a secluded alley. None of them were druggies themselves, but Sherlock quickly decided they must have witnessed a trade or something in that vein and so had been killed to cover it up._

_Once at the crime scene, Sherlock's theory was only strengthened with his rapid-fire deductions. He and John had headed to the drug dealer's usual hangout, where Sherlock had donned a disguise and made his way in to gather information and hopefully evidence to coerce a confession from Evans._

_Somehow, however, they'd been discovered. Sherlock figured something in the way he spoke, too sternly to be innocent, had given him away. Idiot. And so they were yanked into a chase through the streets yet again. Though Sherlock wasn't exactly displeased. Neither, he thought, was John._

_"Evans!" Sherlock shouted as they dashed onto Millennium Bridge, pushing past a few scattered pedestrians, crossing the footbridge at breakneck speed. "Evans, stop this! We have backup!"_

_It wasn't a lie; Lestrade was waiting on the other side of the bridge somewhere to catch him. Sherlock had predicted Evans' path of flight quite accurately, he thought with satisfaction._

_Evans skidded to a stop halfway across the bridge, whipping out a gun. The pedestrians nearby who noticed screamed and ran, quickly leaving the bridge empty except for Evans, Sherlock, and John._

_And then it all happened before Sherlock could react to anything. Evans leveled the gun on Sherlock's chest but then, faster than the blink of an eye, John was there somehow. But he had been behind Sherlock, so how had he gotten there, and wait when had the gun gone off? Because John was falling, tumbling over the railing and into the Thames, and Evans was running away from Sherlock, and Sherlock was screaming, frantically scanning the cold waters below for John. And then Sherlock was about to throw himself in after him because John couldn't be gone, couldn't have drowned, that just wasn't possible because this was John, strong brave amazing John and he couldn't be gone. He was down there somewhere, and Sherlock could find him, he could save him-_

_And then arms were on his shoulders, pulling him back, a distant voice in his ear._

_"Sherlock, it's okay, mate. It's okay," Lestrade's voice drifted into his mind slowly. "We got Evans locked up and we'll get John out of there. I promise. Just come here, let's go."_

_"John," Sherlock was calling, weakly struggling, barely comprehending Lestrade's words. He had to get to John, as this was all his fault that John was down there bleeding and freezing. Water was too cold today, too close to freezing temperatures, and a body couldn't survive there long without contracting hypothermia or worse. And oh please no, it was John down there, bleeding and freezing and drowning and dying. And it was all Sherlock's fault._

_Please no. Please let him live. Please!_

 

* * *

 

Sherlock shook his head frantically, forcing himself out of his memories again. He couldn't afford to keep reliving this; it wasn't going to help anything. He blinked away the dampness in his eyes and tried to calm his racing heart. His gaze fixed on John again, wishing he would wake up.

But the heart monitor kept beeping, no change in anything. John slept on, still recovering from what Sherlock had done to him.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep...

 

* * *

 

_Twenty agonizing minutes after John plunged into the Thames, Sherlock laid eyes on him again. He climbed into the ambulance, more of a flying launch than a climb really, while Lestrade behind him assured the medics he was allowed to be there. Sherlock ignored them all, leaning over John's cold, wet, bloody form. So still. Oh John why are you so still?_

_Gunshot wound to the gut, easily fatal. Severe hypothermia after fifteen minutes in the Thames. Definite water in lungs. Possible other minor injuries due to drowning. Two broken ribs from chest compressions._

_Overall, much more than a bit not good._

_While the medics worked on keeping John's heart beating, Sherlock sat next to him, unmoving and silent. The only motion, had anyone else stopped to observe, was his fingers gently stroking across the back of John's cold hand. He was quiet and moved when the medics told him to, but refused to let go. Had the medics been inside Sherlock's head at the moment, they would have heard one thing, the one thing on which the consulting detective was focused._

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep..._

_John's alive._

_But he's also dying._

_And it's all my fault._

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep..._


	2. Alone Protects You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally wakes up, but his reunion with Sherlock does not go very well...

Sherlock didn't sleep at all the night after the accident, nor the next. His mostly-silent vigil over John was broken only a few times, once by Mrs. Hudson visiting and another Lestrade, both of whom insisted Sherlock sleep and eat. He refused sleep, but did accept a small amount of food, some tasteless substance from the hospital canteen. It wouldn't do to have John scold him when he woke up.  


John... There was a problem with that. Sherlock was determined to never let John be hurt on his account again, but how to convince John to accept? He was a man of action, of adventure. Living an easy life without cases would be a hard sell. Still, Sherlock had to find a way.  


But he knew John would never leave him to live on his own. That was the understood, tacit nature of their bond; neither could live without the other, though most of the time they didn't know why is was. They didn't even really want it so. But they couldn't change it, for that was just how it was. No, John certainly wouldn't willingly leave. And Sherlock didn't want him to, but he saw no alternative. John had to be protected.  


After a nearly twenty hour stretch of time during which he was relatively undisturbed, the consulting detective formed a plan. It pained him to consider it, but not as much as the pain he would feel if something unspeakable were to happen to John because of him. So he would go through with the plan, no matter that he was clearly a coward and didn't dare tell John the truth, no matter that this would ruin everything. The plan would get him to his goal, distasteful a goal as it was.  


It's for his own good.  


 

* * *

  


Two days, fourteen hours, and nineteen minutes since John was shot and nearly drowned, he woke. Sherlock was downstairs in the morgue, having at last dragged himself from John's room, needing space for a while. Molly was off work, so he just sat silently, thinking about the plan and wondering when he could put it into action.  


His phone rang. He answered it automatically, not even bother to check the caller.  


"Sherlock Holmes."  


"Mr. Holmes, this is Doctor Hayes. I wanted to inform you that your flatmate, John Watson, is awake. He's asked to see you. If you would like to come visit him-"  


"Yes, thank you," Sherlock cut him off and hung up.  


He pocketed the phone and took a deep breath.  


It's for his own good.  


He headed up to John's floor and John's room, glancing through the gap between the drawn shades and the wall, trying to see John. But all he could see was his own coat and scarf draped over a chair. So he'd have to enter the room to catch a glimpse of the healing John, then. No easy way out of anything in this situation.  


He grasped the doorknob, and, steeling himself, turned it.  


John was lying in bed and looking so wonderfully alert - if still pale and weak. He managed to smile at Sherlock as the consulting detective entered the room, and oh how it made the detective's heart clench.  


"Hey, Sherlock," John greeted, his voice slightly hoarse but at least it was there, at least he was talking. At one point, just a few hours ago, he had been sure he would never hear that voice again.  


But Sherlock knew the moment had come. He had to do this. So he locked away his emotions deep in his mind.  


He nodded curtly. "John."  


John's smile faded somewhat at Sherlock's tone. "Is something wrong?"  


And here it was. Deep breath.  


"We can't do this anymore, John."  


John made a half-laugh sound, a confused sort of smile on his face, though his brow was furrowed. He thought it was a joke; he didn't understand yet what was about to happen. "What?" he asked, and Sherlock would have given anything in that moment to be John, ignorant and calm, so blissfully unaware of what Sherlock was about to do.  


"You're a liability, John," Sherlock said, forcing his face to show no emotion but seriousness. "I can't have this happening anymore."  


"Have what happen?" John said, frowning.  


"This foolishness," Sherlock snapped. "If I'm to have a partner, I need one more sensible. If I wanted you to make such idiotic useless decisions, I would ask you to do so. Or ask Anderson instead."  


John looked like Sherlock had slapped him, which might actually be preferable in this case. "Why are you saying this?"  


_Keep it together, Holmes. This is for his own good_. "Because you've been slowing me down," he replied fiercely, somehow finding it in him to glare. "I've been thinking it for ages. I could have caught Evans so much faster if I hadn't had to slow down to wait for you to catch up with me! And that's not the only time it's happened! Not only that, but you slow my mind down! I hate having to stop and explain things to your mundane, _achingly_ slow mind."  


And oh, all that was such a lie. During the pursuit of Evans, Sherlock had actually sped up when John had called to him, and the doctor had still caught up. And he honestly enjoyed seeing John's wonder when he explained a deduction; it made him feel good about his ability for the first time in his life. And John wasn't mundane nor slow, never that. But John's wounded expression told him that those falsities had affected him nevertheless.  


"Sherlock," he began, eyes bright. "I don't understand. What are you saying?"  


Could Sherlock actually do this? He was starting to doubt that he could. John's expression was like a stab in his carefully-shielded heart. But then he remembered the sight of John's cold, pale body on a gurney, the fact that he'd almost died twice in the ambulance, the five hour surgery, and he pushed away the stabbing feeling. He would not let that happen to John ever again.  


"I'm saying you and I," he gestured vaguely between the two of them. "Are done. You can't come with me on cases anymore. All that is over."  


"Sherlock," John said, his voice rising in volume and jumping an octave. "We both still live together, we can fix this-"  


"No, we don't and no we can't," Sherlock shot back, and his eyes were fierce though his insides were melting. "I'm leaving."  


"What? Sherlock, no please," John implored. "We can-"  


"You can keep the flat, I know you like it," Sherlock continued as if John hadn't spoken. "But I have been dissatisfied with our partnership for months now, perhaps longer even, so I am ending it. If you need help paying the rent, I suggest you speak with my brother. My things will be gone before you return there."  


"Sherlock, please," John whispered, blinking rapidly against what Sherlock was terrified were tears. "Stop. Don't do this..."  


"I already have," he said, his voice steady and unsympathetic. "From this moment forward, consider our relationship terminated."  


And he stood, gathering his coat and scarf and leaving. He took a second or two longer than he could have, waiting to see if John was going to say anything else. But the doctor stayed silent, and Sherlock didn't dare look at him, afraid of what he would see. So he turned and opened the door. He took one second to pause.  


"Goodbye, John." His voice was cold, stiff, and the sound of jarred him so much that it nearly made him give it all up, admit the truth, beg John to find a better life than this, and not make Sherlock go through with this hideous facade.  


But John didn't reply still. Somehow that gave Sherlock resolve. And before he could change his mind, he was gone, sweeping away down the corridors and rushing out of the hospital as fast as his feet could carry him, because he couldn't stand to be there any longer. He couldn't stand to think of John's broken voice and hurt expression any longer, but his cursed mind didn't seem to want him to escape that jarring image.  


It's for his own good. If he's gone, he can't be hurt again.  


It's for his own good.  


Somehow Sherlock ended up back on the Millennium Bridge, back where it had all started to fall apart. It was pouring rain, he realized, vaguely surprised he hadn't noticed before. He pulled his coat closer about him and stopped halfway across the bridge. Due to the massive deluge, there was no one else around him. Even Londoners didn't want to walk around in this mess; they would be in cabs or on the Tube instead. Sherlock, however, was glad for the solitude, and even for the rain.  


He leaned against the railing, trying to stop his shoulders from shaking. A single tear escaped his eye, quickly mixing with the rain on his face.  


It's for his own good.  


_I'm sorry_.  


 

* * *

  


John watched Sherlock go, confusion, hurt, and pain coursing through him like stinging acid. If he could follow, he might end up punching that maniac. So maybe it was a good thing he couldn't follow.  


Still, what had just happened? Why was Sherlock so angry at him?  


John blinked, trying to steady his breathing, trying not to break down.  


_What did I do?_  


_I tried to save your life, Sherlock, is that such a bad thing?_  


_What did I do wrong?_


	3. Feeling Your Absence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock seeks out his brother for help, and John watches from afar as his friend moves on...

The doorbell rang unexpectedly, and Mycroft frowned. He wasn't expecting any visitors. He stood and strode to the door, opening it swiftly.

Sherlock was standing there, his usual coat and scarf on, a suitcase in his hand, and a distraught look on his face. The rain was streaming down his face in rivulets, his hair was plastered down. It was truly fitting to the mood the detective evidenced in his eyes. As they faced each other in the doorway, neither brother said a thing, but a conversation occurred nonetheless.

_What did you do this time?_

_What I had to._

_Does John know the real reason?_

Sherlock glared, which didn't look remotely intimidating on his unusually-vulnerable countenance. _What do you think?_

Mycroft sighed. He stepped back to give him room to enter. "Alright, get inside then."

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Mycroft sat down at the table, setting a cuppa tea in front of Sherlock, who reached for it mindlessly and drank.

"So what should I tell him?"

Sherlock frowned, looking up blankly. "Tell who what?"

"John," Mycroft replied, raising an eyebrow. "He keeps sending me texts from the hospital, asking where you are and if he can talk to you."

"Tell him you don't know where I am," Sherlock said dismissively, picking up his own phone. He nearly choked on his tea when he saw the texts.

_Sherlock, look, I'm really sorry for whatever I did. Can you call me? I want to talk to you. JW_

_Seriously, Sherlock, what did I do to make you so angry? JW_

_I'm sorry. JW_

Sherlock swallowed hard, flashing back to their conversation in the hospital and John's hurt expression. He wanted to reply, to tell John he had done nothing, but the vivid memory of what happened in the river made that impossible. He locked his phone and shoved it back in his pocket.

"Tell him you aren't able to track my phone," he said to Mycroft, who was looking at his own mobile. John must have texted him again.

"I've said you are unreachable," he replied, laying the phone back on the table and looking up at his brother with that annoyingly piercing gaze. "Why did you do it?"

"He's going to get himself killed if he stays with me," Sherlock stated flatly, after a moment's hesitation. "I simply told him that I was dissatisfied with my partnership with him."

"I told you caring is not an advantage," Mycroft pointed out. "Look where caring has gotten you."

Sherlock snapped his gaze up and glared. "Caring is also currently saving John's life."

Mycroft sighed.

"Don't give me that disdainful look. I did what I had to do, and there's no taking it back. You can't judge my decision; it's over and done."

"Alright," Mycroft held up his hands in surrender. "Just don't do something you will regret."

He stood and took his coat from the hook on the wall, nodding a goodbye to Sherlock as he left to go to work, to run the country in some way or another.

Sherlock watched him go, his last words echoing in his head. "I already have..." he whispered. "I already regret it..."

 

* * *

 

Three days later, Mycroft heard the doorbell ring again. He stood, sighing, leaving Sherlock lounging on the sofa, hands in the Holmes thinking position. When he opened the door, he was only slightly surprised to see John.

"Mycroft, have you heard from Sherlock?" he asked without preamble. "You haven't been answering my texts."

"I'm sorry, doctor, I've been busy with, ah, shall we say a delicate overseas matter. I have had little time to look for my brother." Not that he needed to, he thought privately.

"Mycroft please, you've got to know something, you always do," John implored. "Don't you have his phone tracked?"

Mycroft nodded reluctantly. "He is unavailable, John."

John's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "So you do know something? You know where he is, don't you? Mycroft, please tell me."

"I cannot," the British Government replied shortly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm awaiting an important call."

"Mycroft-" John said, annoyed. But Mycroft shut the door on him. He turned to head down the hallway, when he heard John's voice, muffled through the door.

"This isn't over, I'll still find him. I don't know why you're hiding him, but just tell him when you see him ... Tell him I'm sorry, for whatever I did."

Mycroft heard him turn and leave, and moments later, Sherlock emerged from around the corner. He looked at his brother, his glasz eyes showing a rare hint of hurt.

"John says-"

"I know," Sherlock snapped. "I'm not an idiot; I can hear."

"You realize you'll have to address this problem at some point? You cannot lurk in my flat indefinitely."

"Watch me!" Sherlock snarled, flopping back onto the sofa.

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You can't hide from your problems forever," Mycroft muttered as he shrugged on his coat. "At some point you'll see John again, and you'll have to address what happened honestly."

"We'll see about that."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Try not to burn down my flat while I'm gone, alright?"

 

* * *

 

Three hours later, Sherlock was bored out of his skull. He wished he had a pistol to shoot the wall; it would be an amusing experiment on Mycroft's patience. Or lack thereof.

His phone pinged, and he groaned, assuming it was John again.

_I have a case for you, if you want to take it. Might be interesting enough for you. - Lestrade_

_I'll meet you at the scene. Text me the address. SH_

He sprung up from the sofa excitedly. It felt like ages since a case had come, and he certainly needed it to take his mind off John.

 

* * *

 

"Where's your pet?" Donovan asked snidely as Sherlock ducked under the police tape.

"I was unaware that was your business, Sally," Sherlock replied calmly, not looking at her, instead fixing his eyes on the body on the ground before him. Lestrade looked over, smiling in welcome, and gestured Sherlock over.

"He's still in hospital I suppose," Donovan continued, following Sherlock. "Because of what you did, and you're really just going to go on like nothing happened? Really, what sort of freak are you?"

"The kind that can't hear you because he only listens to worthwhile people," Sherlock muttered back.

"Hey, Sherlock," Lestrade said, shooting Donovan a look when he thought Sherlock wasn't looking. (He was.) "How's John?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Recovering, I would assume. What do we have?"

"Carmen Wyler, thirty-one, single. Seems to be a hit-and-run, but what's bothering me is that this is the third case I've gotten in a month. Hit-and-runs are common, sure, but-"

"Something feels off about these," Sherlock finished, bending over the body. He made his deductions quickly, then stood up to find Lestrade talking in low voices with Donovan and a couple uniforms.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked when they looked around at him guiltily.

"No, it's fine, Sherlock," Lestrade said dismissively, trying to look casual. But Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Well Ms. Wyler was stalked prior to this accident, and she'd recently broken up with her boyfriend, whom she'd been dating for five months. Check to see if that break up is related to the stalking, and get me the reports of the other cases you think are linked to this one. I'll text you where to bring them. If that's everything..."

He wanted to get out of there quickly. He was never exactly welcomed with open arms by most of the officers, but something felt extra off today. Even Lestrade was acting strange.

Oh. Maybe it was the lack of a certain army doctor next to him that was making them talk. What, did they think Sherlock had completely forsaken him after what happened on the bridge? Well, technically, they were right for once. But he didn't need them judging him for it; they didn't know anything of the whole story.

"Yeah, alright, that's it," Lestrade was saying. "Aren't you staying at Baker Street?" He followed, leaving Donovan and the others behind.

"No," Sherlock muttered. "Goodbye, Detective Inspector."

"Hey, wait a moment, Sherlock. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sherlock replied.

"As if I'm not going to see through that obvious lie. Is this about John?"

Sherlock gave him a sharp look. "Keep to your own business, Lestrade, and I'll keep to mine. But while we're at it, being nosy and all, you know your wife only came back to you because she's trying to hide the fact she's cheating until you two can finalize your divorce?"

He left then, leaving Lestrade to sputter, indignant and hurt. In the cab, Sherlock buried his face in his hands. Who knew the absence of John would sting so keenly?

 

* * *

 

A week after John was discharged from the hospital, after he had come home to find most of Sherlock's important possessions gone, he picked up the paper and nearly choked on his breakfast.

**Serial Hit-and-Runs: Sherlock Holmes Does It Again**

And then below that, in smaller print, a subtitle of a photo of Sherlock and Lestrade at a crime scene:

_DI Lestrade, left, with consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, right, as they work the case of serial hit-and-runs together._

John's eyes scanned the article, eating up the mention of Sherlock for the first time in ages.

_In a surprising twist on reality, the famous Sherlock Holmes again amazed everyone yesterday by cracking the case of the oddly frequent hit-and-run accidents in central London.  They were, according to Holmes, actually the work of a serial killer._  
_Though the accidents were first dismissed as random, Detective Inspector Lestrade still brought in the well-known "consulting detective" to look further at the rather unusual amount of these incidents, the latest half-dozen of which have resulted in seven deaths._  
 _Holmes, who predictably refused to give us a statement, was reported to discover there was a link between all six of these accidents. The main suspect is now in custody at Scotland Yard, a man named Charles Smith._  
 _It is assured by a Scotland Yard official that Smith, 33, was apparently taking revenge on those who had wronged him in the past. One of the victims fired him, two led to a nasty break-up, etc. To preserve the integrity of the victims, no specifics will be named here. However, it seems Smith switched vehicles and locations each time he attacked. How Holmes figured it out, we may never know, though it's assumed he does._  
 _But what next for the great Sherlock Holmes? The suspicious and conspicuous absence of his blogger and colleague, John Watson, whose blog made the detective famous in the first place, has puzzled many, but it doesn't seem to have stopped Holmes. Perhaps they had a falling out, but thankfully, it hasn't affected Holmes' ability to crack cases. Here's to many more, Sherlock!_

John flinched at the mention of himself with Sherlock. For perhaps the hundredth time, he wondered why Sherlock had been so bitingly furious at him in hospital, why he had basically kicked John out of his life. What had John done so wrong?

He missed Sherlock, he'd admit it freely, but he also was angry. He couldn't see what he had done, so why had Sherlock? It wasn't John's fault he had gotten shot, for heaven's sake! Well, alright, maybe technically it was, but he couldn't let Sherlock get shot, could he? That's what friends do, protect each other.

But no, that idiot detective had to go off on him for no good reason and then run off.

_"From this moment forward, consider our relationship terminated."_

God, but why, Sherlock? Why don't you need me anymore? I miss you, but why don't you miss me? Was I really that terrible of a friend?

I'm sorry.

You git.

John tried to hide the tears from himself, clenching the paper tightly.

I miss you, and I hate that. And I hate that I don't know why I have to miss you. What the hell did I do?


	4. Uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time goes by, but at last circumstances allow John to reach out to Sherlock, even if it's only for closure...

Sherlock was exhausted after the serial hit-and-run case, having foregone eating and sleeping for nearly three days straight. Mycroft had forced some food down with throat the evening it was concluded, food probably laced with some sort of sleeping pill, but Sherlock ate it anyway, deciding to humor his overbearing brother for once. After eating and leaving Mycroft to clean up after him, he retreated to his bedroom and lay down. He was dead asleep in seconds.

Unfortunately, his exhaustion and the sleeping pills still weren't enough to stop him dreaming...

_Sherlock found himself back on the Millennium Bridge, a storm raging around him. The rain and lightning made it nearly impossible to see, and Sherlock spun around, disoriented. And there was John, suddenly standing before him._

_But something was wrong. There was blood everywhere, John was covered with it. His lips were blue; he looked half-frozen, half-dead._

_"You left me Sherlock," he hissed furiously. "You let me die."_

_Sherlock stumbled backwards. "John, I ... I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"_

_"I hate you," John said fiercely, and turned away._

_"John, wait," Sherlock called hopelessly, making to follow. "I tried to save you."_

_But suddenly he was falling, landing in the water, and he was sinking. Water was in his lungs, and darkness was everywhere-_

_John. I'm sorry..._

Sherlock jolted up in bed, gasping for air. Once he assured himself he was unhurt, he reached blindly for his phone. He had already pressed the call button on John's contact number when he realized what he was doing, and he quickly hung up before it could ring.

He leaped out of bed and walked to Mycroft's room. "Mycroft."

His brother sat up, frowning. "Sherlock, it's three in the morning, what do you-"

"John's alive, right?"

Mycroft frowned. "Yes..."

"Thanks."

"Sherlock," he called as his little brother turned to leave. "Was it another dream?"

"None of your business," Sherlock snapped, shutting the door behind him. He leaned against it, breathing slowly and deliberately. If John was alive, then it was alright. The dream didn't matter.  
  
John was still alive.

* * *

 

_Two weeks later..._

John sighed at the sight of Sherlock in a picture in yet another newspaper article. It was the third one now that John hadn't appeared in, the third one since their case that led to the bridge.

The second case had been a kidnapping of the ten-year-old daughter of a rich businessman. It had been bizarre to see Sherlock Holmes carrying a child out of an old basement, but at the same time, John smiled to know he had once known firsthand Sherlock's capacity for kindness.

The third and latest case had apparently involved a massive con scheme, which looked - even to John - to be fairly basic. Sherlock probably hadn't even had to skip eating for it; it was probably solved in seconds.

The photograph accompanying the article showed Sherlock next to a police car, Lestrade in the background talking to a uniform, and Donovan standing nearby, scowling at the attention Sherlock was getting. Typical. But Sherlock himself looked ... different. He still had that eager look in his eyes like he always did on a case, but if John didn't know better, he'd say Sherlock looked almost lonely.

But that was ridiculous. Sherlock didn't need him anymore.

 

* * *

 

_Two days later..._

John's phone vibrated, and when he looked at the text, his heart almost stopped.

_Hey, John. Just so you know, Sherlock's in the hospital. Some idiot with a gun on this latest case we're investigating shot him. He's at Bart's. - Lestrade_

John was out the door in seconds, calling Lestrade frantically, demanding details as he climbed into a cab. But all the DI could tell him was Sherlock had gotten shot in the side and was being treated. He had had to return to Scotland Yard himself, so John would have to find Sherlock's room himself. John thanked him and hung up, trying to calm himself as the cab drove far too slowly to Bart's.

Finally, after Sherlock could easily have died about sixty times, the cab slowed to a stop at the curb. John tossed some money to the cabbie and rushed out, hurrying to A&E. They pointed him to a room in a hall on the right. Just as he was about to open the door, however, it opened to reveal Mycroft, who was pulling on his coat.

John skidded to a stop. "Mycroft, where's Sherlock? Is he alright?"

Mycroft looked at him, sighing in a slightly exasperated sort of way. "My brother asked to be discharged. He's probably halfway home by now. I was completing his paperwork. Apparently it's too mundane for him to do himself.

"But Lestrade said he'd been shot, so why'd you let him leave?"

"The Detective Inspector exaggerates," Mycroft replied. "Sherlock's injury was superficial, though to be fair, Lestrade was not actually present at the shooting. I suppose I should call him."

"Will you let me see him?" John asked, practically demanded. "Sherlock, I mean."

Mycroft smirked. "Assuming even I can find him. Now if you'll excuse me, John..."

He walked away, giving a courteous nod to John, who stared after him rather hopelessly. Sherlock had slipped away, which was typical of him, but John still wished he had gotten a chance to see him.

This had gone on long enough, Sherlock hiding somewhere (probably at Mycroft's, the lying idiot) and refusing to contact John. He just wanted an answer, was that too much to ask? Was he always going to be pushed away, ignored like the entire past he'd shared with Sherlock meant absolutely nothing? Could Sherlock at least show a hint of decency and answer John? If he did, John would leave him alone, he swore.

Fine. If Sherlock was going to be stubborn, John would have to take the first step.

So he pulled out his phone.

* * *

 

Sherlock heard Mycroft come in and glanced up from his sprawled position on the sofa. It was not nearly as comfortable as the one in Baker Street.

"You could check your phone once in a while," Mycroft commented, entering the sitting room and spotting his lazy brother.

"It's over there," Sherlock muttered a reply, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen table.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Well, you'll have to stand up and get it, won't you? After all, I am not your obedient Doctor Watson."

"But I'm injured!"

"Hardly. It didn't even require stitches, as I explained to Detective Inspector Lestrade, who seemed to overreact. What mad story did you tell him anyway? You made it seem like quite a heroic gun battle."

Sherlock glared at him. "Fine," he scowled, and swung his legs around and stood. The bandage at his side, covering the extremely superficial wound (read: scrape), pulled against his skin, making him curse his own impulsiveness for going off without Lestrade. It would itch for days!

Masking his irritation, he stalked over to the kitchen table, ignoring Mycroft's smug look. Snatching up his phone, he was surprised to see a half-dozen texts waiting for him. Two were from an irritated Mycroft, one from an annoyed-sounding Lestrade, and the other three from ... John?

_Lestrade texted me. Are you alright?! JW_

_Look, I know you probably won't answer... Who am I kidding? Of course you won't. But I'm coming to visit you. Don't do anything stupid until I get there. Actually, don't do anything stupid when I'm there either. JW_

_Answer, please, so I know you're okay. Lestrade didn't really know much. JW_

And then, just as Sherlock was debating if he should reply or not, a new message popped up on the screen. From John again.

_So your brother says you're fine. But we need to talk. Get over here. JW_

And then a few seconds later...

_I mean it. Could be dangerous. JW_

Sherlock blinked. He had no idea what John was playing at, but whatever it was, it probably involved Sherlock getting chewed out for answers. But he didn't want to face John again; he didn't know what to say to him.

"You need to talk to him, Sherlock," Mycroft said, having watched this and obviously deduced what was going on. "You can't hide from the demons forever."

He looked up, seeing Mycroft leaning against the table, looking at him. "What should I say?"

"He's your friend," Mycroft shrugged. "You know better than I what to say. But I'll tell you one thing: he wants to make amends. Just remember that."

Sherlock swallowed. "Does he?"

Mycroft almost smiled, though his eyes showed a flash of rare sympathy. "Don't believe me? Go talk to him, Sherlock, and find out."

Sherlock glanced back down at the phone, the last text glaring up at him.

_"Could be dangerous. JW"_

His fingers flashed across the screen, sending a response before his brain could formulate a full argument to the action.

_I'm coming. SH_

Mycroft smiled at him as he headed out the door. Catching a cab, he wondered if he had ever felt this nervous. But it was John, he could talk to John, right?


	5. Important

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally goes back to 221B, where John is waiting for him...

Sherlock headed up the stairs of the Baker Street flat slowly. He hated to admit it, but he was afraid to face John.

John, who was waiting for him in the kitchen, the kettle on. He turned to look at him, eyes scanning him intently, obviously trying to reassure himself that Sherlock was in fact alright. Sherlock turned and looked into the sitting room. It looked incomplete without his violin, skull, papers. It wasn't right.

"What did I do wrong, Sherlock?" he demanded suddenly, without any buildup. "I still don't understand. Seriously, what did I do?"

Sherlock hesitated, gazing over at John, emotions roiling. Mycroft was right; it was time to face his demons.

"You got shot," he stated abruptly, whirling around to face John directly, coat swishing around him. When John looked thrown off, he continued. "You fell into the Thames, almost froze, and drowned. You died, do you even realize that? When they pulled you out of the water, your heart had stopped. And it did again, twice, in that ambulance.

"And you jumped in front of the bullet for me, didn't you?" he demanded, looking at John almost accusingly. When the doctor nodded slowly, Sherlock scowled. "I thought so. One moment you were definitely behind me, and then next, you were definitely in front, getting shot. You _idiot_."  

He paused, surprised he was capable of being so emotional, inhaling and exhaling shakily. "And I had to watch, John. I watched you fall into the Thames, watched them revive you ... And I watched you die in front of me. Do you have any idea what that's like?"

John just stared at him, lips parted slightly as if he was about to reply, so Sherlock forced himself to plow on before he could be interrupted.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he murmured plaintively. "You just made me _realize_."

He blinked, swallowing hard. Difficult, these emotions. John frowned, finally looking a bit less angry.

"Realize what?" he asked softly.

"That you ... you're ... important," Sherlock stammered. "And someone important like you shouldn't ... can't ... die. Especially not because of me."

"What you talking about?" John said, a bit more fiercely than his expression seemed to warrant.

"I'm dangerous, John," Sherlock implored. "I'm going to get myself murdered someday by some mad criminal, or get blown up or something, and I just ... I can't let you-"

He stopped, suddenly having no idea what to say or how to say it. He fidgeted, shifted uncomfortably, wanting John to understand but at the same time having no clue how to express himself.

"Sherlock," John said quietly, cerulean eyes locked on his steely verdant ones. "For a genius, you are oftentimes a total idiot."

Sherlock blinked, caught off guard by the blunt statement. "I ... What?"

"I think we sealed the deal a long time ago, you and I. When I shot that cabbie, when you invited me to dinner afterwards. I'm not going anywhere," John finished with a gentle smile.

Sherlock looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"God, you're such an idiot," John sighed. He stepped closer, gripping Sherlock's arms. "If something happened to you, something I could have prevented, like what almost happened on the bridge, I would never be able to forgive myself."

Sherlock seemed to deflate. He looked down, sadness in his eyes. "I don't want you to die, that's all."

"So don't you think I feel the same way?" John asked. "You can't push me away just because you're worried about me, because I worry about you too. You've got to let me be there for you, for both our sakes. You've got to trust me enough to do that."

He looked at Sherlock sternly, waiting for him to again meet his gaze. "Do you trust me?"

Sherlock nodded. "With my life."

"Then will you let me back into it?" he asked, squeezing Sherlock's arms gently, barely daring to hope.

A moment passed, in which Sherlock just looked at John with that sharp gaze of his. Then he nodded. John exhaled in relief and nodded back, stepping away. The kettle was screaming, and he turned to seize it. Sherlock watched him making the tea for a minute, then turned toward the door.

"Hey, wait," John called. "Where are you going-?"

Sherlock paused, his hand on the doorframe. He half-smiled. "Well, I can't just leave the skull at Mycroft's, can I? I'll be back soon."

John grinned. "Okay."

 

* * *

 

About five minutes later, John's phone vibrated.

_Dinner at Angelo's? Meet you there in half an hour? SH_

So much for the tea. John grinned. That was all John had really wanted to hear since the day he'd been abandoned in that hospital room. It felt like he was being welcomed back home again.

_Sure, see you soon. JW_

And in a cab somewhere, after reading this text, Sherlock leaned back against the seat in the cab in relief. John's not mad. Thank God.

And I can go home. 

  
FIN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you are so inclined, please leave a comment and let me know what you thought :) ~ SAF


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